


I Think We're Good

by Variastrix



Series: Tumblr Ask Fic - Hamilton [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ficlet, Gen or Pre-Slash, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, it's pretty gen tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9839369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Variastrix/pseuds/Variastrix
Summary: Alexander is... not at his best today.--based on artwork byraythrillon tumblr, please check his stuff out!





	

**Author's Note:**

> So yes this is based on art by [raythrill](http://raythrill.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. For his original post click [here.](http://raythrill.tumblr.com/post/157418230440/slides-you-a-10-dollar-bill-please-draw-more) And for this fic on tumblr click [here.](http://variaswrites.tumblr.com/post/157427154098/slides-you-a-10-dollar-bill-please-draw-more)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Hamilton hasn’t slept in an age.

Even as he shouts and rages after yet another smart-mouthed blithering imbecile he cannot for the life of him remember what exactly it was the man had _said_. His lungs feel crushed and his breathing is too fast. His mind feels.. adrift. His memory and thoughts blur and blend together like the landscape beyond the sheets of rain visible through the entrance to General Washington’s tent. His inability to focus only worsens his ire. He feels like the string of a violin, drawn too tight and thrumming with a nervous energy that makes something quiver unpleasantly in his chest and his hands shake even as he gestures harshly with another vicious epithet against the retreating messenger.

Alex doesn’t even notice the General himself. Washington had stood from his place at his desk as soon as Hamilton’s first outraged hiss had left his lips. As his beloved, frustrating, impossible aide unleashed his scathing intellect at the rather unfortunate man at Washington’s door, the General had taken the opportunity to approach and observe. Hamilton had not been himself all day. The normally dark circles under his eyes were a deeper purple and clashed with the unusual pallor of the young man’s face. His temper, impossibly, had become even shorter. No amount of gentle questioning that morning had yielded any insight into his condition. George had not known whether to feel relieved or annoyed at the characteristic prickliness of his dear aide. Now however, the emotion ticks closer to frustration.

The messenger’s retreat is met with even more furious shouting from Alexander. He is almost out of breath, chest heaving. His shoulders rear back in his pique, unwittingly sending him further into the General’s space. George’s brow furrows as he looms behind Alex. Exasperated, and just the slightest bit concerned at the frantic nature of Hamilton’s tone, he decides enough is enough.

A warm weight settles on Alexander’s shoulder.

He stills immediately, back impossibly tenser than it was before and arms quickly snapping to his sides. All thought seems to halt. His voice chokes off in his throat.

Alex is not touched often. Not fondly, not gently. The events of his childhood coupled with his.. _somewhat_ reserved nature since have not left much room for friendly contact. He does not trust easily. Touching still does not come naturally. By all accounts, a large -very large- hand braced heavily on his shoulder should not send warmth shooting through him. Nor should the sudden presence of a body looming over his own, making him feel small in a way he should despise, give him such a strange mix of reassurance and flustered unease. He is frozen.

“I think we’re good.”

The whisper in Alexander’s ear is a shock to his spine. He is bracketed by Washington. The General’s chest to his back, his hand on his right shoulder and his _face_  just a turn to the left of Alex’s own. His mind is dizzy with the proximity, his body locked in place. Warmth floods him where he had not realized he was cold. Part of him, the part that is normally very persuasive, knows that he should duck away. He should make his excuses and leave immediately to spare himself and his General of the emotion roiling through his chest. The other part, the irrational part that sees its opportunity in the rain, his long night, his fatigue, finds too much comfort with his General’s presence to abandon it. And so Alexander is frozen. He doesn’t even dare to breath.

George is confused. 

He had limited himself to merely placing a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder in the hopes of calming him. However, what success he may have found in his aide’s sudden silence was diminished by the impossible tension in the young man’s small frame. He adjusts his grip slightly, cupping Alexander’s shoulder more firmly and frowning at the shiver this elicits from him.

“Are you alright?” George asks, exasperation entirely replaced by concern now.

Alexander hisses an affirmative, but does not move. His gaze is locked, unseeing, on the sight of the camp beyond the tent. Curious, George repeats the motion, and exhales softly in surprise when Alex all but _melts_  into the caress. It is only for a moment. Between one breath and the next Alex slumps, pressing into George’s hand, before he snaps back to attention and seems to gather himself.

“I’ll- I’ll just-” Alex gestures toward the front of the tent. George is too perplexed by Alexander’s sudden lack of words - Alexander at a loss for words! - to do much more than gape while the aide steps away and toward the exit. It is Alexander’s clear intent to step out and away into the rain that snaps George out of it. Suddenly, the General is desperate to see the young man’s face, to decipher his expression as George touched him, held him. He reaches out-

Alex stops, eyes wide and lips pressed to a tight line as he stands in the middle of the General’s tent. He does not turn from the sight of that blurred landscape through the rain, even as the hand that caught his own gently traces up to his wrist. He is so _tired_ suddenly. An ache he refuses to name grows in his chest and he shudders again. He feels like he could shatter, snap like a bowstring. With one word from the man behind him, one reprimand, a chuckle, a _‘son’,_  Alex would be washed away by the rain that batters the canvas above him.

The hand clenches.

“Alexander.”

Alex breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Also, I do [take prompts](http://variaswrites.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr if you're interested!


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